THIS is one of the true stories I like to tell and remember, especially when I want people to say, “Oh, really?!”
I will not name the city nor the circumstances that made me say at that time, “Your time here is up. You must move on.”
Let’s just say that those were dark days, and I was fast losing faith in humanity, and in anything else that called for faith.
I packed everything that had accumulated in all the years I had lived in that city.
I called a taxi and piled all these in every available space –- on the front seat, trunk, floor, and backseat.
Those were the times when I would whip out decisions like they were instant noodles.
I had no ticket yet and needed to buy one from the ticket office which, at that time, was still located next to the airport.
The taxi driver was amused, and talked about his daughter, because I reminded him of her.
He asked, “Are you running away, iha? It looks like it,” he said, looking at me from the rearview mirror. He had the kindest eyes.
I smiled, weakly, for the flight was in an hour.
In a way, he was right, but I said, “No manong. In fact, I’m going home.”
By any heroic standards, it was but a little thing, what he did.
He waited in the taxi with all my things while I went into the ticket office. He didn’t drive off. That was all.
But given the way I felt at that time, he was my first angel that day.
“Ingat ka, iha,” he said as he helped me carry my things into the airport terminal.
As I ran towards the airport counter, I could see the attendant clearing the desks and placing a sign on top that said: “Closed.”
Perhaps he understood the look on my face, because he took my ticket silently and gave me a boarding pass. He was my second angel.
He weighed my things on the scale. Then he turned to me saying, “You have excess baggage.”
Sometimes, at times when I really shouldn’t, I do very stupid things. This was one of those times.
I was late for boarding, I had excess baggage, and I only had fifty pesos in my hands.
Then the third angel appeared.
Looking back, I sometimes convince myself she really was a being from some outer world with wings tucked behind her shawl.
Her face was beautiful, framed in a Muslim’s black kombong that covered her hair.
Her skin was clear and fair, and her eyes were a strange gray color.
“How much do you need?” she asked.
When second angel told her the amount, she reached into her wallet, drew out the amount, and gave it to him.
I asked her for her name and address so that I could repay her, but she just shook her head and with a slight smile, walked away.
My name was being called on the pager. I ran towards the plane, and flew home.
They call it serendipity, those chance encounters with something wonderful.
I met them all in one afternoon, the three angels who gave me back my faith, and made me see how we can all be gifts to each other, no matter how brief the meeting.
I go back to those moments every time I forget that there is always a greater wisdom behind everything that happens, behind the things that we do (even though it may not be clear to us at those times), or behind meeting certain persons at certain points in our lives.
Truly, “all is gift.”